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Horace pocketed his phone and stared at the door to Jan's room. The thin wood stared impassively back at him, normal, unimpressive just like every other door along this hallway. The text he had just tapped out was a courtesy - he was always very conscious, overly conscious, of overstepping his bounds with Jan. Horace liked him more than he had expected and, because of that, he was feeling more than a little guilty. There was no assumption of monogamy between them, Horace thought, and he hooked his fingers into the pockets on his jeans. But still, he, upset by over-reading into things during the mission, had slept with someone else. It hadn't been bad; the fact that he had enjoyed it only made him feel more guilty. Horace sighed, blowing hair out of his face.

He and Jan hadn't even spoken since the mission - Horace had gotten the impression that Jan was off-island somewhere. He did not know where, just... not around. Something about Jan made him feel jittery, kind of like butterflies in his stomach or eating a bad piece of cheese or looking down into a deep ravine and ebing fearful of falling. With other people, Horace flirted and did not care about the outcome. He could be snarky and a smart-a** because if they all hated him, it was alright. Jan was different. Horace even liked the silly gaudy jewelry he wore, although he prefered him in all white - like something pure and untouchable. Which, he realized, was an entirely silly thought. Jan was entirely touchable and leaned into touches like an affection-starved cat.

Around other people, Horace found it easier to fake a confidence he did not yet feel. Perhaps he should try harder with Jan, too. Or something. His hands smoothed down his shirt, readjusted his scarf, fiddled with his belt loops. Although only a minute or so had past, he found himself unable to wait. His hand reached out and twisted the door knob. Surprisingly, it opened.

He didn't respond to the text, instead sliding his phone into his pocket and looking curiously around the room. It was so... well-put together, like some white suburban mom's dream home or a space someone didn't quite live in. But it smelled like him, felt like him anyway. He ran his fingers along the bed as he moved near it. As always, Horace felt a little dirty in Jan's room - it was something he couldn't quite shake, some silly feeling of not being good enough. It was different when Jan was close enough to touch, to taste, somehow easier to believe.

Ah, and there it was again: guilt. Idly, he ran his fingers over that misshapen lamp, so out of place, so strangely full of wild character. It was none of his business if Jan was ******** his ex or not, he told himself. Horace could ask, maybe. But what was the point? If they were, it was some sort of sado-masochistic thing, he guessed. If Jan ever wanted to hurt him, Horace would accept that; if he wanted to be hurt, Horace could do that too. That was the problem - Horace was a kid who would happily mold himself into anything Jan wanted, if only he knew what. He paused, looked at the music stand. Tilting his head, he hummed a few notes. Horace wasn't a musical prodigy by any means, but he could sight-read fairly well, even if he was probably a littler flat.

Sighing, he slipped out of his shoes and neatly placed them next to Jan's door. Carefully, he laid face-down on the other man's bed. Horace didn't want to nap, but he still felt lethargic and slow and it was the softest, best space. He hummed that melody bar to himself while he waited.

Horace rolled over to look at Jan, a brilliant smile crossing his face. He thought briefly of rising, going to him, but some part of him still felt oddly unsure, oddly aware of imaginary boundaries. He was still just a kid, one who had only had two relationships - one a fluffy, peach-colored romance, the other a secret kept in empty fields and behind closed doors. It made him criminally unsure of himself. But, looking at Jan now, it was harder to imagine some sort of strange half-love still harboured for America. Horace was feeling more and more silly.

"I haven't seen you around lately, so I thought I'd pay a visit." It was a more subtle way of saying 'I missed you, somehow' rather than using those exact words. "Sorry I haven't texted very much; I didn't want to bother." Hesitation be damned, he thought, and slid off the bed with a gangling ease that spoke of grace to come. He crossed to Jan's side quickly and bent down a little to kiss him quickly. The man smelled of sunlight and freshness: good things.

"What've you been up to?"

"Oh, where'd you go?" It felt nice in Jan's arms, safe. He made a small noise of disappointment as the other man pulled back. "Do you think you'll be able to help him?" A stupid question, Horace was nothing if not sure of the man in front of him's ability. He had been something else to watch in action, as cool as the pale blue of his eyes - methodical, somehow sleek. " If a person dies, do they just come back as a Halloweeners?" It was disturbing, a little bit. Horace wondered idly if he would ever meet a ghost that looked like his mother or father - not that he'd know, not really. His father could even be alive.

"Whatever you do in the mornings is well worth it - you are one of neatest men I've met." Horace chuckled and moved closer to the bed. That very neatness inspired a sort of reciprocation in Horace, although he would never be as perfectly clean as Jan. His eyes slanted to the music sheet and the fine notes meticulously scrawled across it. "The music - did you write that, Jan? I like the way it sounds.' Should he tell Jan about it...? He fiddled with the scarf at his neck. With a soft exhale of breath, he sat down on the bed, feeling it give softly under his weight. His fingers automatically reached out to brush against Jan's clothing.

Horace wondered vaguely if that information was stored somewhere in death's archives or in life's labs. There was so, so much to read and learn and exceedingly little of it available to trainees. It was a damn shame. If only hunters had a reliable way of studying Halloween origination in regards to ghosts and undead in particular. Horace knew many of the denizens simply sprang from pumpkins, oddly enough. It was rather like some childish video game. Jan's voice brought him back from a mind filled with dusty books.

"Oh... I'm sorry, Jan. I didn't-" know, didn't think, pried. He looked down at where Jan's hand gripped his wrist and covered it with his own hand. His fingers felt the fine bones in Jan's hand and he thought it was a shame. "Do you ever publish your music? I... can't play piano. I wonder if someone here does." Horace was only a little sorry he'd brought the music up. He wanted to know anything and everything Jan might show him, good or bad. Jan had been through so much, had a lifetime's worth of experiences that Horace did not. Hell, Mikael was Horace's age. Often, he forgot how old Jan was - he did not show his age easily.

"Oh, and I.." Horace blinked, seemed to struggle with his words, tugged at the scarf around his neck again. He sighed and licked his lips.

The stillness in those eyes, the way Jan's hand didn't hold his wrist, but gripped it - it reminded Horace of something he'd seen before, but wasn't sure what. It was something like the way his accent seemed a little less pronounced, something like the way he moved fluidly, precisely during the mission. With a blink, Horace shook off those thoughts. He was being silly, of course, and reading too much into things. As always. And as he watched, Jan changed and shifted back into the softer man he knew. "I would like to hear it sometime, if it were ever possible." He spoke without thinking and swallowed his questions about Jan's daughter and how someone named 'Melody' could inspire those notes.

Horace shivered as Jan's fingertips moved and he gritted his teeth. "I... I thought I should let you know that I slept with someone while you were gone. With Al." It came out in a drawled rush on one single exhale of air. He tensed a little, waiting for Jan's response. His fingers still loved over the other man's hand idly. A part of him thought Jan might smile, laugh, say 'oh, pardner, that's fine'.

He watched in horror as Jan turned cold, still, before hurt seemed to flow over him. Horace's own mouth twisted at the pain he had caused. "No!" It burst out of him explosively. "You are... perfect. I... don't deserve..." The words muffled as he rubbed both hands over his face. Horace didn't know what to say except everything, and he felt the absence of Jan's hand like a brand on his wrist.

Horace's mouth opened, closed. He darted a glance at Jan just once. "I... I just..." He sighed and ran an agitated hand over the shaved side of his head. "It was stupid, I know. The mission... threw me for a loop." His hand fell and tangled with the other in his lap, fingers running over each other restlessly. For a moment, he thought about unfair it was - that he had two sound hands, unskilled with broad palms - that Jan had only one. Jan, who was talented, coldly beautiful and everything that was out of Horace's range. He was so, so stupid.

"I got to see you - how competent you are, how well you mesh with her. " And that's what it boiled down to, he guessed. It was better to have all this miserable doubt up and out. He almost said it... his lips parted. 'And I thought you were somehow still in love with her, with the way she moved and the fire anyone can see burning in her.' "It shook me. I made a stupid decision. Because I thought there was no way that I could be good enough for you - but I was maybe good enough for a night." Finally, he moved his hands, tried to reach for Jan's. He did not expect his words to matter.

"I'm sorry. I.. I" -think I might love you. He fell silent and looked at Jan.

Horace let the comment about America pass. It would take time for the insidious thoughts to fade, for the idea that behind their hate hid something else. It was just how Horace was: weak. He wasn't proud of that. "It's not fine. If I thought it was fine, I wouldn't have told you." His fingers interlaced with Jan's: darker on light. Horace noticed the fine tremors and sighed sadly.

"You, what you think, matter to me. I-if I hurt you, I'm sorry." His other hand moved on top of Jan's. Horace was afraid Jan would jerk it back, tell him to get out. And, despite all his bravado, his fake it til you make it confidence - if he was told to leave, he'd probably break down in the hallway. A breeze ghosted through the open window to blow his hair across his face. Horace did not move to tuck it behind one ear; he needed to hold Jan's hand in both of his, just for a while.

"I... Jan, If you want me, I'll be yours. Only yours." He turned Jan's hand over in his, stroking his fingers across the paler man's palm, across his wrist, as though he could convey everything he thought in the simple movements of skin on skin. "I am sorry. I'm... not good at this." No good at things that were an 'us' and not a 'me'. "I need words."